acquiescing-reality - Tumblr blog

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How miserable it is to be loved by you.

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I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to grow into myself. Keep hoping it'll be some day, any day now, but today was the day I was supposed to be the somebody I expected to be yesterday, yet I remain a nobody.

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You would kill a man for this bedroom

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Toll

Untitled (1976) - Zdzislaw Beksinski

Humans function just like fire ants crossing a puddle of water.

The dead float and make the path we walk on, and their collective experiences become our own, so we know the dangers of lives lived unchecked. They take on the mortal toll of knowledge, we live vicariously through them, learn and dissociate comfortably enough to survive without meeting the same dangers first hand.

This is convenient.

We tell ourselves: this is not how it should be, knowledge shouldn’t have to be paid for with life. But are we willing to go and take responsibility for our own survival? Society is just a name for this distraction- we’ve gotten too comfortable in this sandbox where nothing can phase us because we’ve seen too much. Yet, we have experienced nothing so when anything of consequence breaks out, it makes us crumble. Society is like a rag sweeping along the floor: the hems tatter away first, undoing the rest of the fabric. The downtrodden get the worst of it, their daily horrors become food for our thoughts, and our anxieties cause us to pull further and further away from the truth of it all. We are so cut off from the tangible experiences that it becomes a challenge to feel truly satisfied in what one does. How can I pride myself in my art or my writing, if I don’t source the experiential knowledge myself?

Why do we wonder whether we are authentic? It is an absurd discourse in itself. The fact very that I seriously question my own credibility shows that I must, to a certain extent, care about the experience one has when interacting with me. This- I find great pleasure in denying and fussing over- but it is true. It is crucial. It is this questioning that opens the doors for narcissism and empathy to meet in synergy.

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Confessions

The quivering voice that could only be a sinner’s Whispers confessions to the priest behind the screen Shame, shame, shame, the walls echo Still, the humbling truths kept rolling off his tongue

Tender vulnerabilities shared And when all was said and done, a faintly glowing hope for things to come; For an eagerness to be rid of the past

And yet, not a day later. Betrayed by the sinner he redeemed,  Here lies the priest, six feet under, In a coffin that held his weight in secrets.

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“Never have I looked up at an August sky

and asked it, "Where has last July gone?"”

from Oscar Hammerstein – Many A New Day

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To whom do I owe the biggest apology? No one's been crueller than I've been to me.

— Alanis Morissette, "Sorry to Myself", Under Rug Swept

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Rain

“The rain pours down on the good and the wicked alike, I’m sure, But only a fool stands around cussing at the skies While the wise man goes in search of shelter.”

Something I remember writing in school several years ago. It’s profound, and oddly timeless- and downright absurd considering it was birthed from the mind of a thirteen year old.  But I also wish I didn’t lose sight of it so frequently in adult life. Sometimes I’m the wise man, but all too often, I am the fool.

I think I ultimately have to understand, that I will be the fool on many more occasions to come. I will have to play the role of the fool as many times as it takes for me to learn how to be wise. Then I’ll have to understand that my wizened state is an illusion, and that if I let myself stagnate in the belief that “Ha, I am now wise”, I would be a fool once more. Fresh meat for the cosmos to cut, toss and mould again. Growth is a humbling process, in the end. After all.

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The Hive Mind

I am solitary.

Absurdly enough, I always forget.

And perhaps it is criterion that

I’m living as I should-

With the innocence that all is linear,

As a victim of circumstance,

Under the pretence that I am not Divine.

I fear enunciating my own name,

For fear that the fabric of my being

Will come undone if I realize

That I am merely a crease in time,

An overlapping of information,

Energy endlessly flowing in and out

Of a vortex of its own making;

That I exist to contrast the void,

And void exists to contrast me

And my canvas is populated with Eyes

Millions and millions of Eyes

That look to each other

for grounding anchors against 

the shifting tides of reality

But once in a while

Ever so rarely and

Ever so oddly,

A pair of Eyes will look directly into mine

and ask me, with wonder or good humour

"Why all this then?"

And I am made aware,

So terrifyingly aware 

Of the crushing weight of nothingness

And a momentary relief in being and seeing-

Living vicariously through those Eyes 

to learn my shape.

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The Exile of Man and God

Through the burning sand, This red-robed, white-bearded man Leads me towards a horizon That my blistered feet will never reach

Did I breathe him into existence to keep me company, Or did he breathe me? Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps I didn’t want to truly know.

"Doomed you were from the beginning Through each pair of eyes, you will see once and never again- You shall have no rest and no sweet release from this cyclic flickering of life and death. I will see to it. I will bear witness to it." He spoke ominously, staring into the sun.

And I, in my heat smothered agony Wondered if this was divine ordainment For transgressions that have seemed To transcend the confines of mine own memory- Or perhaps self-imposed exile.

Through my raspy, parch throated unease, I manage to ask him- "Then are you not doomed as well, in every sense?"

Perhaps more than you." He grimaced.

"Very well then, your watch will never end and my dust will never settle. Let us carry on."

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[Yggdrasil]  We are all nothing but fibers on the roots of a great tree. Unawares, man peers into the eyes of another, only to see himself. 

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A Mere Emulation

Faint and fading, Overlapping, half-formed thoughts, Layered in translucency. My mind racing to flee from This unwilling, subduing stagnancy.

And yet, I must say, Reluctantly, that movement is easy enough But standing still, especially beyond The deadlines of comfort, Proves to be the stuff of nightmares.

Because here in the sullen Silence of my prison, I waste away in contemplation, Mind, body and soul- atrophying From watching mind, body and soul atrophying,

Still at the mercy of percieved time, I have come to the understanding That stagnancy is only an illusion- A mere emulation of the oblivion. Oh, how I dread it, knowing I should.

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Ad Finem Fidelis

As an ad maker

I often wonder

If advertising serves

Any purpose at all.

This obscene display of imagery

Strictly regulated against debauchery

Yet still making the insides churn

With anger over wasted time,

Still numbing the senses

With mindless violence,

Silly fears, children screeching

To sell me a soap or a curtain.

And then we wonder, collectively,

Where have humanity's sensibilities gone?

We're unwittingly robbed from,

By ourselves,

Aren't we?

Buy my toothpaste,

Or that girl won't kiss you.

Buy my face cream,

You're too dark

For that job interview.

Conceivably, should such a firm exist,

With colorism their primary filter

To qualify applicants

I propose a line of action:

Shut the fucking place down.

But no, you want me

To put on your fucking face cream

And stand there, 

Like the world owes me something

Because that’s what I was promised.

You fill my head with with what ifs-

What if, just what if.

While the rest of nature

Dances to Darwin's code;

Fear of inadequacy feeds supply,

And supply: demand

This is the policy of our world

And I, guilty as an enabler

Of such sensory slaughter,

Would like to apologize.

For even the ad makers aren't safe

From the traps we've set for the other.

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In Pursuit of Remedy

There is no uncorny way to explain what I've come to understand today.

Self-healing always comes through healing others. Feeding the ego by putting others down may seem like a quick, viable option to feel better about oneself, but in truth, it will only numb the pain for a while and keep it from actually healing.

When the ego is aggravated, you will only feel the pain twice as much. And you will strike back twice as hard. And receive backlash four-fold, and you will return that eight-fold. A most vicious cycle.

Thus, I appeal to myself, and in doing so, you too, to stop striking back mindlessly. Crucify the ego, and be more compassionate.

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Fifth House Matters

To each his own coming of age story, While this human stands bound within The confines of visceral accusations And Saturn's disapproving gaze At a moment lost to wonder and spontaneity "All love is earned and all pleasure must Be worked for. Such is the law." But what is law to the wind? The ever changing sky, And the fleeting clouds that travel it? What is integrity,  To the erratic rhythm of life?

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Machina

Not every incident that displeases the senses and unsettles the mind is unnatural. Indeed, anything that happens to a man is always within the realms of human faculty. The only explanation that can be given, in the event of misfortune, is that it had to happen because the wheels of life must turn for others, and in response, so must yours. In metaphor, we're all gears in the machinations of the universe. Movement is the essence of life, and of growth.